Working My Sources

Your intrepid reporter is busy working his sources -- meaning I've been flipping from one TV channel to another and getting some of the vice presidential gossip. MSNBC over to CNN over to CNN Headline News over to Fox -- wait, scratch that, I didn't go to Fox. I accidentally got the Animal Planet channel, and according to my sources there, Bindi Erwin will not be -- repeat, she will not be -- John McCain's running mate.

I've been working my sources on the blogs as well. My fingers are literally breathless. I'm wearing out the 'Refresh' icon on my Firefox. I might have to download another copy. At Daily Kos they have a thread of speculation. I haven't looked at that yet, or maybe I have; I had to empty my cache since it was starting to spill out all over the floor, and emptying it reset all the links.

It could be Palin, Pawlenty, Romney, Huckabee, Quayle, Petraeus, Bailey-Hutchinson, Cindy. It can't be Bozo because he died a couple months ago. For sourcing on that last piece, that's from my own personal memory of the situation as I know it stands: Bozo the Clown is dead.

The Democratic Speeches

These reviews of the Democratic speeches will be short celebrations. I have zero criticism to make.

How about John Lewis? That was a great speech, wasn't it! The guy's a legend, and when he stands there it's like watching a million bucks that knows it's a million bucks. He's integrity incarnate.

The Martin Luther King, Jr./Rosa Parks tribute film -- That was inspiring in the most profound way. It really teaches you something, that they may hate and kill you at the time, but in the end, by a life of integrity and truth, you win. You hear of King wondering if his stand based on Gandhi and Jesus is adequate for the times, but he goes with it 100%. What a vindication in the years since then and now. He and Rosa Parks and all the other non-violent heroes did conquer and their names will live forever. Those who opposed them, those who opposed civil rights, those who labeled King a pinko and all the rest... Where are they? In the hall of shame, in history's dumpster.

Rev. Bernice King -- Brief speech meant to introduce her brother.

MLK III -- Real good. Personally, I don't think I would want to go through my own life continually talking about my dad day in and day out, for decades, but it must be OK with him.

will.i.am and John Legend -- These guys are geniuses. The song, which I guess was called "Yes We Can," built on Obama's speeches and included numerous snippets of his speeches as part of the lyrics, being sung over at the same time. That was a thing of beauty. I was amazed.

Al Gore -- The guy talks in a flawless way. And his intelligence is so astounding. It's hard to believe we ended up with the total moron we got in George W. Bush. For all those other morons out there, who thought George Bush would be more fun to have a beer with, how was the beer? He doesn't even drink, morons. This country, by the barest majority (electoral votes), turned away Al Gore. There must have been some terrrrrrrible karma this country was set to pay that allowed that tragedy to happen. Like maybe slavery and the massacred Indians put together. Otherwise there's no sense at all to it, unless good doesn't really triumph over evil. And make no mistake about it -- Make No Mistake About It -- George W. Bush is evil.

Susan Eisenhower -- She did a nice job.

The retired generals and admirals -- Good. Their spokesman laid it out in a nice way.

Barack Obama -- Who? Oh yeah, that guy. That was a stunning speech, right from the heart. I was blown away. Crystal clear, inspiring, specific, cutting, funny, common sense, heart of America, perfect.

At the end, there was something I loved, a bit of stagecraft. They played that classical type of music, in a slow, meandering way, and it suggested to me the end of a movie, where the heroes and victors are going off in slow motion, suggesting a happy ending, something extremely satisfying for the viewers. It gave it a kind of significance that is different than just walking off to some oldie. Then the way that Obama himself was the last one out; I thought that was a bit of genius too.

Your Intrepid Reporter -- Take 2

Last night I wrote about me being an intrepid reporter, and on-the-fly did some etymological speculation, deductions, (guesses, really) about the word "intrepid." I posted it to little fanfare, leading me to believe that no one was commenting on it because my explanation was beyond reproach.

I went to bed, then, and I was lying there thinking about it, mentally parsing the word, until I couldn't stand it anymore. So I got up and went to look at the dictionary, hoping to be validated, but I wasn't. That doesn't mean I looked up the other aspects of the definition, because I didn't. I just stuck to this one word, which, as it turns out, has something to do with the word "trepidation," which we all know has to do with fear. So "in" makes it a kind of opposite of that. Anyway, I could have looked up "trepidation" for its origins, but I didn't. I'm just not going to go out on a limb like I did last night and make any guesses about it.

Whether the word "intrepid" means (originally) what I said it means, or something like what the dictionary says, these are matters for scholars to debate. I'm just going to be it, not know it. I re-read over some of my reports, and really I think I was quite "intrepid." Look, I gave Joe Biden's mother five stars and I only gave Barack Obama four. That's fearless. I criticized Mrs. Biden's son for a few stumbles, meaning I have a spine of brass. I'm not that concerned about trolls or nasty emails. If you're going to be a reporter, with original reporting such as I provide, you have to play it right down the middle. To me that means Mrs. Biden did a great job, plain and simple. Others might see it differently, but that's their business; to each his own would be a good way to think about it.

I haven't turned on the TV yet today. But after while, after I do several other errands in my busy life, I plan on watching it. And I won't be taking a lot of notes. I'll just be relying on my memory. Then after it's over -- or maybe between events -- I'll come and post some comments about what happened. These may be very affirming comments; I hope they are. They may be mildly critical -- it's very likely there'll be something I don't like; I'm easy to satisfy, but not overly easy, pretty easy, but don't take it for granted. They may be quite critical -- such as if there is something very egregious, something that strikes me wrong, that raises a sense of ire. They may be super, all-consuming critical; I hope not, because I'm saving most of that for the Republican convention.

You'll have to check back, if you're really that curious. Because we're doing this in real time; even I don't know at this point what I will say!

Other Democratic Convention News

Your intrepid reporter missed most of it, to tell the truth. But among the things I saw were:

-- Joe Biden's speech. He seemed to stumble a few times. I think the problem might have been that it was mentioned a few times that he used to have a stuttering problem. So he was thinking of that and it meant a few missteps. Which illustrates the Karl Rove tactic of attacking someone's strength. In this case, he prevailed over stuttering, which led to what, bumbling words and phrases. As to the content of Joe's speech, he seemed strong and well-intentioned but it was all over the place. As for the catchphrase that the audience was to shout back, it was all muddled, and held back for some reason. When he attacked McCain for a few points this was muffled by referring to him as "John" over and over. The best parts involved Biden's personal biography, his mother, all that. He came across as a man of his word when his mother was nodding and saying "true."

-- Barack Obama made a surprise appearance at the end. He was exciting, and very personable. He had one verbal misstep as well, so it was contagious. And since I'm nothing if not tenacious, I'll trot out the same theory as to what happened to Joe Biden. Obama heard all that about the stuttering, then his subconscious said he didn't want to show up Biden, even though he (Obama) is Number One, he wanted to be gracious, and so he botched one line, and the first one even came out funny. But this isn't all bad, because it's not great to be too scripted.

-- John Kerry. I just saw a few minutes, and he was powerful about the swiftboaters, and all that. I just wish John Kerry could unleash his inner rabid dog and go genuinely on the attack. Everything that comes out of his mouth sounds half contrived and like it's being filtered within and awarded gold stars before it exits his mouth.

-- Bill Clinton. The dawg knows what he's talking about when it comes to presidents. And I thought his endorsement of Obama was pretty good. We don't want the world to go to pot, do we, just so Hillary will get another shot at it in four years?

-- Tammy Duckworth. I saw most of her presentation. She was heroic without taking a lot of credit herself. She was lavish in praise of her brother and sister soldiers.

-- Steven Spielberg film. Excellent, of course, touching music, a tearjerker of a tribute to veterans. It was good for more than the obvious reasons, but for this, that it showed the soldiers as so vulnerable, suggesting they've protected us, now they need a protector, someone to get them back to full strength. Tom Hanks was powerful.

All in all, then, things went pretty well. Joe Biden's mother gets five stars, Joe Biden three, Clinton four, Duckworth three, Spielberg five, Kerry three, Obama four on the evening.

Joe Biden's Mother

I'm going to start with the biggest news first. Joe Biden's mother looks a lot like Grandma Slump. Except she's a girlish 92 and not a mature woman of 104. And so she's no doubt still wet behind the ears.

They showed her in the audience, mouthing that it was "true" that she sent her son back out in the streets to bloody the nose of bullies. She's obviously a tough cookie, and she raised a tough cookie of a son.

Take a look at this photo. When she was sitting in the audience, you couldn't see the rest of her. She had that sweet wrinkly look of blessed age from the neck up, and you're thinking it's all she can do just to be there. So I'm holding my breath, hoping she'll be OK.

But then you see her out on the stage, and look at the photo. She's fit. She's got good looking legs! Those legs aren't Photoshopped. And look, it's virtually a miniskirt she's wearing! That's definitely not a Grandma Slump look! Grandpa and Grandma were married a long time before he ever saw that much skin!

In this picture, Mrs. Biden looks young and full of life. She's definitely a great gal, and it was very wonderful to see how much Joe Biden loves his dear mother.

Everyone who reads this blog knows that Grandma Slump swings Republican and I swing Democratic. But she might just change her mind if she gets a look at Joe Biden's mother!

Your Intrepid Reporter

Your intrepid reporter reporting here.

I've always liked the word 'intrepid.' It's like other words, if you say it a bunch of times it sounds weird. It sounds like a biped with three feet, a triped, or tripod. Trep is like a trap or a trip but isn't a word in its own right. I would guess the 'intre' goes together, as in intro, 'into' with a definite direction. As for 'pid,' my etymological guesses at first are up against the wall, but 'pedal' and words involving the feet ('pied' or 'podiatrist') come to mind. So put those together and you have someone taking steps in a courageous way into a situation. Look it up. I might be wrong but I can't be too far off.

But what does 'intrepid' mean when we use it generally? It's a word we all know when we hear it but because we don't use it in everyday conversation, it's definition is not immediately obvious. We could think first of 'fearless,' fools rushing in where angels fear to tread.

We tend to use it in a humorous way that suggests a parody, or an ironic speaking to someone's abilities. We know there were those who were genuinely, unabashedly intrepid in history and adventures, before anti-heroes, if you will, when heroes wore white hats and were unambiguously heroic and good. As for heroes today, you never know, they might be drunks and tragic figures when they put their white hat away, and when they take off their tight suit their belly flops out, very disgusting, pure fat. So it's always 'your intrepid' this or that with a slightly arch wink and a knowing, nodding chuckle.

I didn't mean to get into all that. We might say -- and with this next bit of humor I am really going to impose on your patience -- that I did something 'intrepid' in fact, stepping into a subject and explaining it both with precision and unnecessary extravagance.

The next post will get beyond the meaning of your reporter being 'intrepid' into what your 'intrepid' reporter has to say about tonight's convention news.

The Democratic Convention - Day 1 and Day 2

I'm "liveblogging" here, although this is a quick recap of last night's proceedings at the Democratic convention a day late, so it's tape-delayed "liveblogging":


Day One

I honestly don't remember much about last night's proceedings. A succession of poor speeches by people I didn't really recognize, and apparently that went for the audience too. The two highlights were obviously Ted Kennedy and Michelle Obama.

Senator Kennedy gave an inspirational speech.

As for Michelle Obama's speech, she was natural, real, and wonderful. She's quite beautiful. The Obamas look so great, it's astounding.


Day Two

I watched some of the pundits and not all the tepid speeches of all those anonymous Who's-That-Guy types. I think Chuck Todd repeated himself too often about what Hillary needed to do. And I think Pat Buchanan is so full of both himself and crap that the two are indistinguishable.

I missed quite a bit because I had other things to do. That would include Dennis Kucinich. I'm really sorry I missed his speech. Also the other day when I was pounding nails I'm really sorry I didn't hit my thumb with the hammer.

Mark Warner's speech -- The man is not a loser, but he is a snoozer. If that's the "keynote" speech, give me the "key" to my room, because I'm going to bed.

Brian Schweitzer's speech -- Animated like a mime, bobbing and weaving, a bobblehead. By and large a rouser, although with a semi-false tone. With some doing he finally got the crowd into it. He was OK, nothing worth waking Grandma up for.

Hillary Clinton's speech -- She needed to show some support of Barack Obama and delivered. Her speech voice is a lot like fingernails on a chalkboard, but it was the content that mattered. She got the job done and her supporters were left with zero rationale for voting for McCain.

A Journalistic Frame of Mind

The whole thing about the Daily News doing a possible interview with me, then headlining the great feature story about my blogging efforts, "Local Man Writes Own Blog," has me in a very journalistic frame of mind. I've got to post something. I can't sit idly by.

I feel like doing original reporting, to be truthful. Such as doing my own interviews, great man on the street types of stories, with candid interviews with the man on the street, what he's up to, what his opinions are, and whether he's ever read my blog. Since I myself built this blog from the ground up, of course I want many more readers -- presently I have barely any -- and if I have to beat the bushes to attract them, then that will be my plan.

I need to work up a convincing spiel as to why anyone should read this blog. And I think I have one, because it might change your life, and also give you the kind of information you can't get other places. Look, already I have more behind-the-scenes details and intrigue with the personalities in my life than other blogs. You've got the best of both worlds, my runaway ego and my withering paranoia. And if that's not enough, my grandmother is on staff to give the perspective of bygone generations.

And one other thing you might see here: there's not a lot of cussing. I was warned against "blue language" as a kid. Also, no "blue humor" here, nothing raunchy, no unclean double entendres about body parts and functions. If you want that kind of talk, there are plenty of inferior blogs that will scratch your itch.

Now I'm going to phase out this particular post -- with your forbearance -- and give a quick journalistic rundown of the Democratic convention, recently in progress.

I Built This Blog

I am proud to say that I built this blog from the ground up.

As I shared yesterday, it is one of my greatest life fantasies to have the Daily News do an interview with me and write a story headlined, "Local Man Writes Own Blog." That may or may not happen, in part depending on my tenacity in getting the job done and in part depending on my strong faith.

Whether there is the glory of a Daily News feature story on me, I will continue to be proud of all I have done here. It is certain that not just anyone could have done it. It took someone with particular skills, a particular outlook, and the ability to draw in the different threads of experience and expressiveness to write a good blog like this.

Sometimes I ask myself how I was able to do it. In wracking my brain and coming up with an answer that is both honest and inspirational, let me say first it wasn't easy. I saw up close the same hurdles that everyone else sees. I saw the same temptation to give up that stares everyone in the face. And I didn't have to do it. But I did, and for that I remain proud.

Of course I have a daily source of inspiration in a very special lady, "Grandma Slump" herself. Playing the part of Grandma Slump is Mother Kendall, and hasn't she done an marvelous job? More or less forgotten, Mother Kendall left behind one known photograph and a whole lotta love. Her loving vibe comes to me through the ether. No doubt long dead in terms of her earthly life, Mother Kendall still inspires, having assumed the role of Grandma Slump here on earth. Perhaps Mother Kendall lived 80 years -- I don't know. But today she lives on as a occasionally robust 104-year-old woman, who takes no guff from me, who plays her single grandson. A big shout out to Mother Kendall, everyone!

That's a part of the inspiration. And inspiration is always a big part of any equation. But you know, they say it's 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration that carries things through. If 99% of the time you're sweating, then you are sweating an awful lot. And that's what I do. Daily I sweat as I put forth this blog.

It took a lot to come up with the great concept. It takes a lot to get the ideas, to develop them, and to present them in a way that adequately fulfills my goals. There are obviously lots of things I could be doing with my time. I could be reading and bettering myself. Just today I saw a couple of scholarly books for sale, one by Immanuel Kant and one on the utilitarian philosophy of Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill. But when I looked through those books, my eyes immediately glazed over, and I told myself, 'Why waste your time sweating over that, which you wouldn't understand anyway? If you want to know something about that stuff, which you don't, look it up on Wikipedia. Instead, you spend your time with ideas for this blog. That's what people want. And that's what you want.'

Now, please give me a moment as I metamorphose back into my personna as Grandma Slump's grandson.

The Daily News at this point doesn't know that a local man conceived and created this blog. But were they to know, I'm sure they would be amazed. It would not take them long -- this is my conviction -- to beat a path to my door for an exclusive interview. The reporters would look at our little house, and Grandma resting quietly in the bed, and would wonder how I did it with such modest means. I would instruct them that it's not a man's means that makes the difference, but a man's spirit. The dirt poorest man can still be a prince, under the right circumstances, a few lucky breaks, meeting the right girl, and somehow tricking her dad.

My spirit is such that a blog like this, while a challenge, is also a labor of love. And that labor of love will continue.

Whether the story ever materializes -- "Local Man Writes Own Blog" -- or whether I am condemned to write in solitary obscurity, write I will! This blog. This single blog. This single great blog, which I myself built from the ground up. A blog that I am proud of and should be proud of -- today and always.

To Be Known For One Thing

I've been working on "ego" issues. Maybe I mentioned this before; I don't remember.

I let these personality things slide sometimes, then there's a flash of insight and next thing you know I'm back to it. These times usually coincide with me happening to see professional men dressed in white coats. The fact that they're not coming for me is always good, of course, but the fact that I'm thinking of it is enough of a wake-up call to get busy.

Thinking about my ego, usually it's deflated, but sometimes it's quite inflated. Even though I'm getting on in years, it still seems possible that a major producer will discover me and I'll be the next big rock star. Like Fabian. I just sit there, very coy like, but the producer never comes. And I'd hate to have to start out small and work my way up, like standing on the corner singing for dimes, then being the entertainment at a nursing home, then county fair competitions, then producing and marketing my own single record, then ... probably nothing. By this time I'm a worn out has been, with people pointing at me in grocery stores, going, "Isn't that the old guy who used to sing at the fair?"

It's always been one of my biggest fears "to be known for one thing." I hate that whole scene. Such as if you cause a stink at the courthouse in a dispute over your taxes, and let's say you pay your entire tax bill in pennies, and it makes the paper. From that point on, whether you live or die, you're the guy who caused a stink at the courthouse in a dispute over your taxes and who paid in pennies. That's nothing to be known for! And I knew a guy who was known for that. It's a long story, but he ended up in prison, because there was more to the story than that.

You can be known for fairly benign things, like, let's say you were an entertainer at nursing homes. Then any reference to you picks on that one thing. "Well-known nursing home entertainer, Oney 'I've Got a Frog in My Throat' Anderson, died today of a heart attack. His frog croaked too." Or to get out of the realm of penny protests and show business, you might have been a crossing guard for the school system. And that's the one thing you're known for.

I really think it's almost better to be known for nothing than for one thing!

Still, and this is my personal ego talking, how cool it'd be if the Daily News would run a story about me, with the glorious headline in 60 point type: "Local Man Writes Own Blog." Except then, someday 50 years from now when I die, it'd be "Local Man Who Wrote Own Blog Dies; Grandmother Mourns."

It Is Better...

"It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop, than with a brawling woman in a wide house." (Proverbs 21:9).

That verse was from my moment of devotion today. I'm trying my best to get my life on track. And one way I'm trying is the spiritual path. Thinking of my dad the other day, a yoga monk and teacher in the past, reminded me of some of the benefits of the deeper wisdom.

So I thought it over a while, then opened my Bible at random, and that's the verse right there in the vicinity that my eye saw and settled on. When I saw it it seemed entirely fitting in a way, and yet not one to one, because Grandma isn't exactly a brawling woman. I really don't think I'd say she was ever a brawler in the strictest sense of the word. Like anyone, she likes to get her way -- whether it's eating cake even though she has diabetes, buying lottery tickets even though money's right, or hogging the TV. There have been difficult times. But she's never pulled a knife on me or had me rassling in the dirt.

Anyway, the verse pictures two people living in a wide house, meaning they have plenty of room. We don't live in a wide house, just an ordinary, fairly narrow house. But we're pretty happy with it and don't have the energy to add on. We have the old philosophy, "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." That's always been one of Grandma's favorite stock-in-trade sayings.

So here we are at home. Home sweet home. The verse is saying, though, it would be bad to be even in a wide house if you had a brawling woman. Things wouldn't be so sweet.

The alternative given is to move up to the roof, to live on a corner of the housetop. That's not a natural place to live, and would be a ludicrous choice. So I'm taking it as the upshot of this whole verse that brawling women are to be avoided, whatever you have to do. A little advice to the menfolk, try to keep your grandmothers happy and you'll always have a decent place to live.

Brighten The Corner

Brighten the corner where you are.
Brighten the corner where you are.
Someone's out to get you whether near or far.
So brighten the corner where you are.

Our Own Little Corner of the World

If you've ever been good and paranoid, you know that you're the center of the universe and all eyes are on you, at least the bad ones. There's a camera on every pole, a camera that an enemy has installed in your garage, recorders under the couch cushions, maybe a bug on your collar, right where they can pick up your heavy breathing.

If you've ever gotten weird calls, as I have, numbers that are unidentified, mysterious clicks when you answer, odd numbers like 999-9999, recordings that start off with "Do not be alarmed," or actual cranks who seem to know more than you want them to know, saying, "I know where you go, and I know what you do there," then you've given at least a second thought to the idea that, yes, they're out to get you.

But you tell people this -- those who are comfortable in their own skin and believe no one's out to get them -- and they start to wonder about you. And when they start wondering, the cycle picks up again, and the wondering mounts and feeds upon itself. Perhaps they're trying to usurp, maybe that weird shifting in their eyes indicates discomfort, suspicion, revulsion, mistrust, and maybe they're just trying to humor you till they can get out of your sight and alert the authorities. They're coming with sedatives, dogs, electric prods. You don't have to tell me, a guy can lose a lot of sleep sitting at the window with a shotgun. Then you start to drift off and in a confused state you start, shaking off the sleep that's come upon you unbeknownst, and in the meantime you end up sending a spray of buckshot across the lawn. It happens.

Paranoia happens, then sometimes it doesn't. When it doesn't, that's when you feel like you can be convinced that there's an entirely different scope on things. Meaning, maybe you really aren't the center of the universe. Maybe no one cares if you live or die. Maybe your spot in this world is confined to the little half acre, the little plot of land that your sad carcass is resting on right this minute. And while the rest of the world is cruising by in a convertible, their hair streaming in the wind, you're just sitting there a forgotten, unknown, neglected lump, worthless as ever. If you shoot your gun, occasionally, you'll get away with it, because no one is paying attention that closely. (You're just playing the devil, you didn't shoot your gun, no matter what ballistics tests might reveal, assuming they press the issue.)

To put it in a more positive way, there are niches, shelves, corners, and the like, and you're in one of them. If you're unknown, you are inhabiting your own little corner of the world. And you have all the privacy in the world, because, again, no one cares. If you live, fine. If you die, fine. It really makes no nevermind to anyone, men, women. They're out there, living it up, while you, in this pathetic enforced privacy are shut up, pining away, wishing, hoping against hope that maybe one of them, perhaps a good looking one, would give you the time of day. But apparently that's too much to ask, and so it goes on.

For me, I've found it's always best to look on the bright side and keep a positive outlook. When you have your own little corner of the world -- and when you're happy -- that's a fortune, it's worth its weight in gold. We used to sing that little song in Sunday School, "Brighten the corner where you are," and that's still the philosophy I live by. I have my place, you have yours, and never the twain must meet. That can be a challenge, of course, say, if we feel lonely at times, perhaps shunted off to the side of existence, out of the mainstream of life, like everyone else is partying it up while we're over here picking the scab of our many resentments, idly wondering what precisely is wrong with us? You'd think we're made of the common lump, right? Well, that might be expecting too much. You look at yourself in the mirror and you see the same thing as any other guy, and it makes you wonder, what's the problem? Because there's obviously a problem somewhere!

Grandpa (Tell Me 'Bout the Good Old Days)

Those aren't tears streaming down my face. OK, they are tears -- I don't sweat that much.

So what's been tugging at my heartstrings today? Did I see a hen mothering an orphaned baby duck? No, the answer is less to be found in the realm of natural history and more in the realm of popular entertainment, culture, music to be specific, country music to be particular.

I've been listening to the Judds' song, "Grandpa (Tell Me 'Bout the Good Old Days)." It's an old favorite and a very touching song. You might remember it. "Take me back to yesterday when the line between right or wrong didn't seem so hazy." Then they remember back, asking about the greater family values, whether lovers really were in love, wondering if daddies really never went away, and if hens mothered orphaned baby ducks without some kind of egg subsidy from the government.

They explain to Grandpa that everything has changed, which is called progress, which might be a bad word for it. "Let's wander back into the past, and paint me a picture of long ago." "Did lovers really fall in love to stay, stand beside each other come what may..." I do remember those days, here with Grandpa and Grandma and everyone. There was the distance between my own parents and Grandpa and Grandma. Then Grandpa died and "he really went away."

The Kundalini family (my father received it as a monastic name in a yoga sect in California before meeting my mother, getting married by the guru, and having me) was spacey in many ways. We came back this way, to the Midwest. I ended up staying with my grandparents while they went on back to California and often to parts unknown. My dad's now passed away -- he "really went away," too -- and my mother is still alive, but sick and poor in California, apparently without much sentimentality, although once in a while she writes.

They were back, though, a few times, and we always had a nice time, especially with family meals, going hunting and fishing, and of course meditating. About meditation, that was a sore spot for the family -- Grandpa brought out many of his treasured cuss words to address the strangeness of it. He definitely didn't understand sitting in one spot doing nothing! So, yes, those were the good old days. Thank you, Judds, for bringing back all the great memories. Family estrangement, everyone going away, Grandpa's personality problems, government subsidized chickens, my sick mama, the works.